


The Artist and His Muse

by kupur



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes-centric, Depression, Developing Relationship, Eventual Relationships, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), New York, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Road Trips, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers-centric, Waiter Bucky Barnes, and then it turns into, at first, more specifically cancer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kupur/pseuds/kupur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky thinks he's met the love of his life: a short blonde man named Steve who's partaking in a road trip after his mother's death and trying to live his life to the fullest.</p><p>[on hiatus]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [ this tumblr post. ](http://poppunksteverogers.tumblr.com/post/146680429768/i-want-a-fic-where-steves-on-a-cross-country-road) Be warned — it's basically a giant spoiler for this entire work!
> 
> TW for this chapter: minor character death, blood/needles.

He knew that this day would come eventually, but he hadn't expected it to be so soon.  
  
A nurse claps a hand onto his shoulder, warm and reassuring, as Steve watches the doctor pry open his mother's eyes to shine a penlight into them. On any other day, it would be routine; they'd be checking the responsiveness of her pupils, and she'd smile ruefully at Steve while they did so, trying not to wince at the harshness of the light as it entered her eyes.  
  
Right now, though, the light goes into her eyes and Sarah Rogers lays unmoving.  
  
"I'm sorry," the nurse at Steve's side whispers to him. She tightens her grip on him, squeezing his shoulder in a way that seems like she's trying to be reassuring, but it's nothing but painful. Her fingertips are digging into his clavicle in an uncomfortable way that Steve would normally bemoan about, but right now he's too focused on the doctor and his mother's supine, limp body to care about the pain shooting through his weak bones.  
  
The doctor turns off his penlight and pushes Sarah's eyelid back down to its original position. He tucks the small flashlight away in his breast pocket and turns to eye the clock. To the nurse at Steve's side, he says, "Time of death: 6:15 pm." To Steve, he says neutrally, "I'm sorry for your loss."  
  
The doctor breezes through the door of the hospital room, effectively leaving Steve alone with the nurse and his mother's body. The nurse gives Steve's shoulder one last pat before she, too, leaves the room.  
  
Steve had been expecting this day for a while. For years, doctor had been telling him that she wouldn't survive more than a few years, that the cancer was too advanced for even modern medicine to fight off. Had the cancer been found years earlier, back when it was in a progressive stage and not in the midst of destroying her nervous system, she might have had a fighting chance to beat it off. Instead, it was found when it was past Stage IV, growing in entanglements around her spinal cord; there would be no way to dispose of the cancer cells, not without killing her in the process.  
  
Sarah looks the same as when she was admitted into the hospital: pale and sickly. There's a hint of a blush littered across her gaunt cheeks that makes Steve want to believe she's still alive and that the fact that her lungs are no longer expanding means nothing. She had always been a beautiful woman, with long blonde hair that rivaled Steve's in sheen, and bright eyes that would always sparkle whenever she looked at Steve. Now, though, her hair is missing in patches from the failed chemotherapy treatments and her eyes are shut under her eyelids, undoubtedly dull and without that familiar shine.  
  
Steve hates the hospital; he always has, from the first time he was admitted when he was a sickly toddler with a bad bout of bronchitis, but now he has even more reason to hate it. He feels disgusted in himself for allowing his mother — a nurse, no less — to die an undignified death in a building that smells like antiseptic and illness. Although she had never specifically said that she wanted to die at home, Steve feels terrible that he allowed her to die in a room without her loved ones surrounding her, being poked with needles and fed through tubes.  
  
He gets out of the chair that he'd collapsed into by the door to move to stand next to her bedside. He brushes a few wispy hairs off of her forehead and tucks them behind her ears. He's amazed by the way the hairs don't fall out of her scalp like they'd been doing lately, but he's grateful as well. He brushes another set of flaxen hairs behind her other ear and stoops to press a soft kiss to her pallid forehead. Her skin is cool to her lips, not radiating heat but not the harsh coldness he'd heard the skin turned to after hours of being dead.  
  
He leaves the room then, letting a trail of tears flow down his face unashamedly. He knows his shoulders are shaking uncontrollably and that his hands probably aren't any better. He ignores the sympathetic looks from the nurses as he passes by their station on the way to elevator, shouldering his overnight bag higher on his bony shoulder.  
  
He just wants to go home.

 

* * *

  
He spends a week in solid isolation, pointedly ignoring the knocks on the apartment door that undoubtedly come from his worried neighbors. He stays in bed the entire time, only rising to use the bathroom when the need makes itself present, and hides under his covers listening to his mother's favorite songs and crying to himself.  
  
Steve's usually a strong guy — even at 5'4, 100 pounds soaking wet, he gets into fights like his life depends on it — but he's always had a soft spot for his mother. She was the one who bandaged up his bloody knees after he got shoved to the ground, the one who clucked her tongue at him and handed him an ice pack or a frozen bag of peas after he came home with a black eye or two. She'd never reprimanded him for trying to hold his own, only told him to be careful and to not get into more trouble than he could handle. She was his only support system and the only one who took him seriously, especially when all of his teachers labeled him a pint-sized terror and instigator.  
  
When Steve is all cried out a week later, he drags himself out of bed to take a shower. The water is nice and hot when he tests it with his wrist, and so he turns the temperature all the way down so it's freezing instead. He still can't feel the need to give himself any pleasure, not when he's still mourning and feeling sick to his stomach with nausea. He catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror before he steps into the shower and it makes his stomach flip some more; he's most definitely lost some more weight, if the hollow in his stomach and the sunkenness of his eyes are anything to go by.  
  
He showers quickly, not taking more than five or six minutes to shampoo and rinse his hair. He dries himself off outside of the tub, dripping water onto the linoleum as he shoves a towel roughly over his skin. He rubs a towel over his hair until it's mostly dry, letting it sink down and plaster itself against his head, and then leaves the bathroom to go back to his bedroom.  
  
He wants to go back to bed, he really does, to cry and sleep some more, but he knows that he can't. He has a plan for the day, as much as he hates to admit it, and he plans to abide by it, and so he starts digging around in his closet for clothes instead of dropping onto his mattress again. He's dressed within ten minutes, snuggled warmly inside of a sweatshirt that's two sizes too big and a pair of sweat pants that cling to his narrow hips tightly.

 

* * *

  
Steve's destination is the hospital once again. He's dreading the visit, all the way from the smell of the place to the reason why he's going, but he sets his shoulders back in a way he hopes will embody him and steps through the doors. He's immediately hit with the scent of antiseptic, so strong it makes his eyes start to water. He almost rethinks his plan, almost turns around to head out the door and call for another cab, but he hesitates when he eyes the door. He needs to know.  
  
He knows the hospital all too well. His first visit had been when he was a toddler battling bronchitis. Although he can't remember that visit too vividly, he can remember all of the subsequent ones: the admittance for the bouts of scarlet fever, pneumonia, rheumatic fever, and even the flu. He was a sickly child; he wouldn't be able to count the number of times he'd been sent to the hospital on two hands. Although his immune system had gradually gotten better and he'd stopped visiting the hospital as much, his previous illnesses had given him their own problems: partially deaf, poor eyesight, heart problems paired with arrhythmia.  
  
His body is his own death sentence.  
  
Steve maneuvers the halls easily, ducking past doctors that don't see him due to his short stature, passing by nurses that recognize him and give him sympathetic looks. He doesn't say anything to anyone, just brushes past them in favor of reaching the elevator docks. He knows his final destination and doesn't need any help, but that doesn't stop him from hunching down on himself as soon as the elevator doors close. He's nervous, of course, from being in the hospital, but he's also terrified. If he were wearing boots, he's sure he'd be shaking in them.  
  
Pathology knows Steve all too well; they'd probably be able to recite how many blood samples they've received from Steve over the years. The nurse manning the circulation desk notices him first and sends him a sad smile, and he tries to give her one in return. She's a pretty blonde, one Steve's never met before, so she's probably new; either way, she knows who he is, either from his mother's talks or from the hospital gossip. Her name tag reads _Sharon._  
  
Steve doesn't feel underdressed, not really, even under the gaze of this undoubtedly powerful woman. She has the power to turn him away right now, and half of him is entirely willing for that to happen, for her to shove him out the door and let him just go home and mope. But it looks like she understands what's going through his head, his internal dilemma, and she just asks him, "Can I help you with anything?"  
  
"I want to get my labs done." Steve blurts out the words before he can think through them. It's easier this way, to just be blunt and get the words out without taking the time to mull them over. It's something he does when he starts to second-guess himself — to just say whatever comes to mind first before he can change his mind and run away.  
  
Sharon has obviously been caught up to speed on the "Steve Protocol," as Steve's mother liked to put it. She pulls out a clipboard from her side of the desk and passes it over to Steve along with a pen. "Make sure to sign in," she notes, gesturing to the pad on Steve's right. "We'll be with you as soon as we can."  
  
Steve takes the clipboard but doesn't thank her. He scribbles his name down on the check-in pad with his characteristically messy scrawl before he goes to take a seat in the next room. The waiting room is entirely devoid of people, like normal, and Steve settles in a seat by the door, slumping down and bringing his knees up so he can rest the clipboard on them.  
  
He speeds through the questions on the papers quickly; he's gone through this routine before, for things like his annual physical blood work, so the questions are second nature to him. His name, birth date, insurance information — he writes the answers down quickly. When it comes down to the reason for his visit, he hesitates for a minute before writing down _Cancer markers._  
  
By the time he's completed his paperwork he still hasn't been called back yet, so he sets the clipboard down on the seat next to his and takes a few minutes to survey the waiting room. He hasn't been down to Pathology for months, not since his last physical, and the room has changed a bit. The paint on the walls is new, a soft cream color that's unscuffed and dirt-free. Steve runs his hands over the bumps on the wall behind his head, watching as his fingers dance over the color. He's colorblind, of course, but he can see this color, and he thinks it's wonderful. Momentarily he wonders if he'll be able to recreate the way the light from the ceiling light dances over it.  
  
The chairs are the same as always: hard, rounded plastic in a color that Steve can't identify (red). They're huge, adjusted for the average person, so Steve feels unbearably small in them. They're a constant, however — they've been at the hospital for as long as Steve's been here, so they're something like home. Familiar.  
  
The only other thing in the room is the table set in the middle of the room. It's carved out of wood, and when Steve was younger he loved to pass his hand over it and feel all of the rough edges and dips. It's covered in magazines, as per usual, from graphic design to fashion. It's far enough away that Steve can't stretch out to rest his feet on it, but close enough that he's able to pick out some of the individual magazine titles. He's never liked the choices of magazines; hospitals, like any other bureaucratic business, don't pick the popular, expensive magazines — it's cheap titles or bust.  
  
Steve's just finishing taking inventory of the waiting room when Sharon the nurse pokes her head in and says to him, "Steve? We're ready for you now."  
  
Dumbly, Steve stands up and picks up his clipboard. He leaves the waiting room and then follows Sharon into the main Pathology lab. She sets him up in an empty room and then shuts the door after assuring him that one of the phlebotomists will be in to see him shortly and that the doctor on call is just finishing up with his evening rounds. Steve just stares at the closed door, his knees jumping up and down with anticipation, until the door reopens and a woman with bright red hair peeks the room.  
  
"Steve Rogers?" she inquires, smiling gently at him. When he nods, her smile grows and she enters the room. She's wearing light green scrubs that accentuate her curvy figure, but Steve barely notices it. Instead, he keeps his gaze on her face as she takes his clipboard from his outreached hand and reads over it. When she's finished skimming through his information, she looks up and says to him, "Just blood work today?"  
  
"Yes," Steve says, the word choking in his throat. It almost comes out in a whisper. He's surprised at how badly he is at talking right now, especially since nothing could have triggered it. He wonders vaguely if his allergies are coming back. He clears his throat before speaking again. "Just the labs, yes."  
  
The phlebotomist absolutely beams at him; Steve wonders if that's because she knows what happened with him and she's glad he's out of the house or if this is just her natural demeanor. He hopes it's the latter. She hands him back his clipboard and says, "Not a problem! My name's Natasha, and I'll be taking your blood today. Are you squeamish, or do you have any history with fainting?"  
  
"No," Steve says honestly. He'd been poked with so many needles throughout his short lifetime that he'd be surprised if he was.  
  
"Great! Are you allergic to either latex or iodine?"  
  
"I don't think so, no."  
  
"If you were, you'd know," Natasha reassures him unnecessarily. She leaves his side to go to the cupboard above the sink, where she pulls down a box of gloves and a fresh needle kit. Steve's nervousness begins to ebb away when she starts washing her hands, watching as she scrubs soap against the backs of her hands and in between her fingers, underneath her nails and in the creases of her wrists; not every medical professional followed protocol, and he's relieved when he sees her do so. Whether it's for show or if she really is a rule-follower he doesn't know, but he's glad either way.  
  
He readies himself as she dries her hands and tugs on a pair of gloves. He twists his arm, maneuvering it so that the inside of his elbow is facing the ceiling, and tugs up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He takes a moment to look at his veins — he's learned over the years — and is slightly dismayed to see that they're very light and slightly sunken. He inwardly hopes it won't be a problem; he's been turned away from having his blood taken before on account of his veins being too hard to find. Even now, at ease with Natasha's professionalism, he's sure if he's asked to leave he'll bolt and then not come back.  
  
Natasha doesn't seem to think his veins are too hard to find, however. After securing a rubber tourniquet above his elbow, she taps his arm and smiles readily at him when she finds a vein. "I'm pretty good at finding veins," she says by way of explanation when Steve gapes at her apparent speed. "Now stay still for a minute."  
  
The blood draw is quick, nothing like Steve's experienced before; he's used to fumbling technicians poking him and failing at getting the needles into a vein, but Natasha's true to her word, and she slides the needle through on her first try. A vial of blood is collected quicker than he could have expected, and within ten minutes of meeting her she has two vials sitting on the table next to her and he has a purple wrap nestled against the puncture wound on his inner arm. "Not so bad, was it?" she teases.  
  
"You're really good," he says truthfully. "Usually it takes twice as long."  
  
Natasha smiles at him. "I told you, I'm good at my job." She stands up from where she'd been sitting and pulls off her gloves one by one, taking care to not touch her bare skin, and then disposes of them in the hazardous waste container. After washing her hands again, she pulls on another pair of gloves and tells Steve, "I'm going to go run these down to the lab. Dr. Wilson should be right in."  
  
"Thank you," Steve calls as she leaves the room. She casts him another small smile and shuts the door behind her.  
  
Steve has a few minutes to look around the small room he's in. It's pretty normal, as far as these kinds of rooms go: there's the chair he's sitting in, which is some color (red) and made of something he guesses is leather; there's also the rolling chair Natasha had been sat in, which Steve guesses is probably blue (he can't tell that color, either) and made of cloth; there's the counter, which looks like it's probably made of some kind of cheap laminate, and has a single-basin sink inlaid in it. And, of course, the above-sink cabinets, which also look pretty cheaply made; Steve's sure that, even with his poor strength, he'd be able to pry off one of the cabinet doors easily.  
  
The doctor pokes his head into the room just as Steve's debating about getting up to rifle through one of the counter drawers for something to toy with. He's a handsome man, with dark brown skin and a warm smile. He's certainly attractive, but he's not Steve's type; which is good, Steve guesses, because even if he doesn't want to jump this man today doesn't mean that he wouldn't have had he been in a good mood instead of a depressed one.  
  
"Steven Rogers, I presume?" the doctor questions. His voice is gentle, and Steve kind of wants to just keep listening to it — it's a very reassuring voice. "I'm Dr. Wilson. What brings you in today?"  
  
Steve passes over his clipboard. "Just Steve's fine," he says hastily. He watches as Dr. Wilson skims over the answers on his intake form. "I just wanted to get some blood work done."  
  
Dr. Wilson obviously hasn't been informed of the "Steve Protocol." He asks pleasantly, "I see you noted down cancer markers as your reason for coming in. Are there any particular ones you're looking for?"  
  
Steve's almost relieved the man hadn't asked _why_ he's looking for cancer markers. Still, he can't stop himself from curving in on himself, trying to hide from this doctor that's trying to help him. "Not really," he manages to get out. He wonders if Dr. Wilson has heard of his mother, since she worked at this hospital, the very same hospital she died in. "My mom just— I want to see if there are any..."  
  
"Of course." Dr. Wilson nods. He's obviously noticed that Steve's uncomfortable, and Steve's pleased by that. He takes a seat in the chair that was vacated by Natasha and rolls over so he's near Steve but not touching and certainly not in front of. "Results usually take a few days to come in. We do a few different things with the blood sample: a CBC, for one, as well as a chromatography test, which will separate the blood into different parts. And then we'll do something called a total protein test, which will help us see if there are any abnormal lipids or proteins in your blood."  
  
Steve knows all of this; his mom was a nurse, and he'd been in the hospital for most of his life, so he's heard all of this before. He knows exactly what's found in a CBC, knows exactly how a blood chromatography is done. The only thing he's never had performed before is the protein test, because he'd never needed one, and Sarah... Well, they'd found the tumors and masses, so there hadn't been any need for protein tests. Blood tests, of course, to make sure the rest of her numbers were okay, but nothing more was ever needed.  
  
He can feel himself getting lost in his head again. He can't be thinking about his mother right now, not when the very thought of her is bringing up salty tears to sting and well at his eyes. He blinks twice, fast, and shakes his head a little before he brings himself to look over at Dr. Wilson. The man is eying him gently, sympathetically, as if he has an idea of what's going on in Steve's head. For a moment, Steve hopes that the man can't read minds, because that would be embarrassing.  
  
"We'll call you when the results are in," Dr. Wilson continues. "Until then, I would try not to worry. It's very unlikely that you'll have any markers, especially at such a young age."  
  
_Mom was young,_ Steve mourns.  
  
"And if it turns out that you do have markers," Dr. Wilson adds, apparently not noticing the way Steve's crouched in on himself more, "then we can create a plan of attack so that they don't get to be anything more than just markers."  
  
Steve chews on the inside of his lip. "Okay," he agrees noncommittally.  
  
Dr. Wilson leans forward in his chair and rests his elbows on his knees. "Is there anything else you needed help with today? Anything else you'd like to talk about, maybe?"  
  
It immediately brings back a memory from when Steve was ten and his parents were going through their divorce; his father had made him go to a therapist, hoping that whatever Steve said would cause the judge (because the therapist would be made to testify, of course) to reject their divorce proceedings. The therapist had looked at him exactly like this: with open care in their body language and something like sadness in their eyes, the kind of look that made Steve want to just let everything out.  
  
And he had: he'd told the therapist everything, from the screaming matches to the way his father had physically laid hands on him. His confessions had caused the judge to immediately issue the divorce, and when his father had turned red with anger after the therapist had finished speaking, Steve had felt confused. Hadn't he been supposed to tell the truth? Wasn't he supposed to detail everything that his father did when the therapist asked him about it? Wasn't he supposed to trust this strange man that his father was paying?  
  
His father was furious at Steve; when they'd gotten home, he'd verbally berated him. Sarah had packed her things, as well as Steve's, quietly, and they'd left the house after Steve's father had left for work the next morning. It had simultaneously been the best and worst day of his life: he'd left a horrible example of a father, but he'd also left the place he'd called home for his entire life.  
  
"Steve?"  
  
Of course Steve had gotten lost in his head again. He shakes himself loose and apologizes hastily. "Sorry. No, nothing else, thank you."  
  
Dr. Wilson is still looking at him with a sympathetic face. He holds a hand out for Steve to shake and says, "If there's anything else you need, anything at all, feel free to call in before we call you."  
  
Steve takes his hand and pumps it twice, feebly. He's never been very good at shaking hands, not with his lack of upper arm muscle. "Sure. Thanks."  
  
Dr. Wilson watches him leave the room, and Steve can't help but to hate the fact that he knows that Dr. Wilson will still be watching him with that same sad expression. It gets to Steve that he knows it's not pity but genuine worry, but he's not used to seeing that look on anyone but Sarah's face. It makes him uncomfortable.  
  
Sharon the nurse waves to him as he leaves Pathology, telling him that they'll send him a bill after his insurance clears. He doesn't return her wave but bids her goodbye.  
  
He takes the elevator back down to the lobby of the hospital, feeling tired and unhappy. He still hasn't eaten today, something he's made painfully aware of when his head starts to spin. It's been doing that a lot, actually; for the past week he's been dizzy when traveling to the bathroom, but he assumes that's because he's been skipping meals. He almost wants to wait until he gets home to eat, but a gurgle in his stomach tells him that that's probably not a good idea, so he heads down to the hospital cafeteria.  
  
He hasn't been here in what, years? He can't remember the last time he stepped foot in this part of the hospital; he hadn't gone at all while his mother was a patient, too strung-out and worried to leave her side, and he'd always had his meals delivered when he himself was a patient. The last time would have been when he was younger, maybe in high school, when he would spend his summers sitting at the circulation desk reading because there was nothing else to do or the A.C. was out at home. Ten years — if he could whistle, he would. That's a long time to avoid eating hospital cafeteria food.  
  
Not that hospital cafeteria food is a bad thing — it's a step up from the food they serve the patients, but not by much. It's still the bland food Steve remembers eating from his last stint at the hospital, and maybe they've added a little flavor, but it's still boring and tasteless. Steve picks up a sandwich and a bag of chips and makes his way over to the register. The girl here isn't wearing a name tag and doesn't seem to recognize him, which Steve supposes is good, so she doesn't ask him about his mom, only tells him blandly what his total is.  
  
He finds a seat in the corner of the room and sits down with his back towards the wall so that he can keep an eye on the other patrons in the room. It's not that he's wary of them — he just doesn't like being snuck up on. Maybe it has partly to do with the fact that he used to get beat up every week because he never knew how to keep his nose out of things; more likely it's partly to do with the fact that it keeps his better ear away from the wall so he can maybe hear when someone's coming.  
  
The cafeteria is bland; white walls and white tiles, not smelling of antiseptic but not smelling of food, either. The tables (gray) are made of linoleum; the bench seats are yellow, plastic, and hard under his rear. Steve thinks he would hate to have lunch here everyday, surrounded by people in uniform scrub tops and harsh fluorescent lighting.  
  
He eats quickly, tosses out his trash, and then leaves the hospital for what he hopes will be the last time for a long, long time.

 

* * *

 

Long isn't long enough. Dr. Wilson calls him back three days later telling him that they've gotten the results from the blood tests and asking him to come in as soon as possible. It's left as a voicemail, so Steve's unable to ask why he can't just call back to get his results. It would certainly make things easier, getting to hear it from the safety of the apartment. Instead, he has to get dressed and then call a cab (because he'd never learned how to drive) to take him to the hospital for the second time this week.  
  
The ride up to Pathology is quiet, same as last time. The nurses and doctors he'd passed on his way to the elevator bay had ignored him, which Steve had been grateful for.  
  
Sharon is manning the front desk again. She perks up when she sees him, recognizing him. "Steve!" she calls out when he gets close enough. "Should I tell Dr. Wilson you're here for your test results?"  
  
"Please," Steve expresses. He takes a peek into the waiting room while Sharon goes into the lab, relieved to see that no one was in there to hear her outburst. He's a little peeved by her lack of professionalism — HIPAA, anyone? — but also a little pleased by the way she seemed to already remember him.  
  
Sharon comes back within a minute. "You can go right back," she tells Steve, smiling at him. "He's in the first door on the left. You can't miss it."  
  
"Thanks," Steve says. He sidles past her to gain entry into the lab and lets the door close behind him gently. It takes a few meters of walking before he reaches the first door on the left, and he hesitates before knocking. It's cracked open by a few inches, but he's unsure if he's supposed to just walk in or not.  
  
Dr. Wilson makes the choice easy for him; the door opens before Steve has a chance to knock. Dr. Wilson smiles softly down at him and says, "Steve, hello. I thought I heard you there. Come on in, take a seat."  
  
Steve steps into Dr. Wilson's office and takes a seat in the smaller chair. Dr. Wilson sits in the bigger chair, which Steve notes is made of dark leather and is definitely of the rolling variety, something he's a little jealous of.  
  
Steve doesn't have time to look around the room and get a feel for it, because Dr. Wilson jumps right in. "Thank you for coming in so quickly," he says firstly, giving Steve a wavery smile. "Like I said in the voicemail I sent you, we did get your test results back."  
  
"And?" Steve presses. Dr. Wilson doesn't sound too distressed, and all Steve really wants to do right now is go home and shrug back on his pajamas to watch television again. His days are finally starting out with choked gasping instead of full-on sobbing, so he's trying to make the best of it.  
  
Dr. Wilson hesitates. His smile drops and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "First of all, I don't want you to worry. In this day and age, with the medicine we have now..."  
  
Steve can feel his heart immediately drop. How had they gone from neutral conversation to this? His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. Is he about to have an asthma attack? Oh, please, don't let him start choking now. "What is it?" he demands before his body can get the better of him.  
  
He can think of a million things it could be: maybe his hemoglobin is really low, because it's done that before; maybe he has high cholesterol and needs to start laying off his morning omelets; maybe his WBC level is high again and he's just getting warned about an impending cold. It could be anything. He shouldn't worry.  
  
And then Dr. Wilson names off the exact cancer Sarah had, and Steve bends over and vomits.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update! I'll try to get out the next chapter by Friday, as planned.

Steve makes a rash decision the next day: he's going to leave town. Or, more specifically, he's going to take a road trip.  
  
He's sitting on the floor in Sarah's room when he makes up his mind. He's cross-legged with a box of souvenirs sitting in his lap; it's a jumble of knick-knacks that Sarah and Steve had picked up from over the years, old but not dusty. They had obviously been cared for; Sarah had probably spent time picking over them, feeling them over with her long, slender fingers. Steve can't remember the last time he himself looked over the trinkets, and a sad smile spreads over his face as he runs the tip of one finger over a Canadian coin.  
  
This box is one of the only personal things his mother had owned. She had grown up a poor immigrant, unable to keep anything for long, and she'd carried that habit with her over to the States. She'd told Steve one day, when he was finally old enough to understand, that she'd come over with just the clothes on her body and a shoe box full of her worldly possessions, because her mother had told her to keep the list of what's important short and close. And so, the box. She'd certainly collected in it, an assortment of tiny figurines and old, wrinkled photographs littering the bottom.  
  
Steve runs his fingers over one of the photographs; it's of him and his parents, just after he was born. There's Sarah, looking exhausted but proud, her hair falling in dull ringlets and her face covered in a thin sheen of sweat from the effort of birthing him. His father stands next to her, face stretched out in a huge smile, eyes twinkling; Steve assumes that this was the man his mother had fallen in love with, happy and adoring, and not the man he'd turned into. And then there's Steve, eyes wide but unfocused, a shock of hair fluttered out across his forehead, his chubby fists splayed out across his equally chubby chest.  
  
Steve was such a chubby baby; sometimes he can't believe it, not until he sees the photographic proof. He'd asked his mother about it once, about how he'd suddenly lost all of his baby fat, and she'd just shaken her head sadly and said, "Even as a baby, you got these terrible stomach ulcers. You wouldn't sleep, you couldn't eat..."  
  
He runs his fingers over the aging photograph one last time, lingering over his mother's face, before he slides it back into the shoe box. He nestles it in between a few other pictures to keep it safe. When he's assured that the corners of the photograph won't become crinkled or jam up against another object in the box, he slides his attention to a piece of paper, folded up tightly, that's been delicately placed in one corner of the box.  
  
He knows what this note is; he had helped write it, in fact. His hands are trembling as he reaches for it, but he forces himself to continue. The parchment is rough under his palm, and he brings it closer to him before he begins to unfold it.  
  
It's a list: bulleted points written in Sarah's delicate hand, outlining every place in the States she wanted to visit. She'd pored over it with Steve, scrawling down every location he'd wondered about, logging every city or thing-to-do that she was curious about seeing. It had taken them only hours to fill the entire page from top to bottom, with _Coney Island_ topping the list and _New Orleans_ ending it. Steve's contributions to the getaway list had been _Visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art_ and _Bronx Zoo_ ; they had managed to visit the former, but never the latter — the Met was free, but the Zoo was too expensive, even if they were to save for it. Steve had never been particularly disappointed by the fact that they couldn't afford to go; all he really cared for was to spend time with his mother, and it didn't matter to him whether that involved animals or not.  
  
Only two things are marked out on the list — the Met and Coney Island. They had gone to the Met just after the divorce, when Sarah was strung-out and Steve was hyped up on nervous energy. It had been meant to relax the both of them, and it had; they had left in considerably higher moods, and Steve hadn't been able to stop gushing about the different art styles. He might not have been able to pick apart the colors very well, but he was enraptured by the paintings nonetheless.  
  
It had taken years for them to visit Coney Island; they just never managed to find the time for it, not when Sarah was taking on double shifts at the hospital and Steve spent his time either in school or in the hospital himself. They had finally managed to go once Steve graduated high school, after puberty had made its appearance and strengthened his immune system just enough that he wasn't in danger of dying from the common cold. Steve had free time and freedom for the first time, and Sarah managed to switch her shifts around so she had a weekend off, and so they'd spent an entire Saturday wandering around the boardwalks and gushing about the scenery. They weren't able to afford entry into Luna Park, but it hadn't really mattered to either of them that they weren't able to ride the famous Cyclone.  
  
Now, staring down at the list in his hands and thinking about the memories, Steve can feel tears start to creep at his eyes again. He unabashedly swipes at his eyes, only successful in smearing the wetness around his cheeks. He still feels dull inside, empty, but obviously not immune to everything that had happened. It's still too much — it's still too soon.  
  
The one thing Sarah had made sure of was that not everything on the list was in New York. She'd told Steve, in what seems now like a long, long time ago, "I want to be able to travel. I've never been able to travel before — I was always too poor to."  
  
Steve, in all of his little-kid wonder, had asked, wide-eyed, "Like a road trip?"  
  
Sarah had beamed at him, eyes full of mischief and wonder. "Exactly like a road trip!" she had declared. "We'll do everything we can here, and then, once you're old enough, we'll road trip for the rest!"  
  
They obviously hadn't managed to go on that road trip, much less complete the New York parts of the list. Steve runs his finger down the ink lines slowly, watching as the letters disappear and reappear under his fingers.  
  
The idea is sudden — he wants to finish the list. He wants to avenge his mother's memory, and maybe his own. It was her very own bucket list, and she hadn't been able to even make a dent in it.  
  
He packs his bags as soon as he's finished skimming over the list. Come morning, he'll hail a taxi and make his way to the nearest Greyhound Station.

 

* * *

  
He steps out of the taxi at just after five in the morning. He pays the driver and then watches as the cab slowly makes its way back into the throng of cars in the street. Even though the sun's barely up, New York's traffic is in full swing for the day. The busy atmosphere of the city had been one reason Steve and his mother had chosen to live here; it was nice to be surrounded by city sounds, instead of quietness that slowly turned unbearable.  
  
At five in the morning, it's also quite cold. Steve is bundled up in layers, sweatshirt over sweatshirt and with a scarf to boot, but he still shivers when a gust of wind hits him. He fumbles for his mittens before realizing that they're packed away in his suitcase, and he curses at his negligence. He's always had bad circulation — the last thing he needs right now is numb hands.  
  
Steve's only saving grace is that he can head inside the Station. He picks up his suitcase from where it lies on the ground and slings his duffle bag over his shoulder before he starts making the trek into the building. He has to stop and readjust himself twice on the way over, but eventually he makes it over to the doors. When he's inside the Station, he gives out a long sigh in relief from the sudden hit of warm air and lets himself bask in its warmth while he collects himself. As soon as he's able, he shifts his bags into a better position and goes to look for the ticketing desk.  
  
As busy as the city is right now, the Greyhound Station is surprisingly empty. There are only one or two people milling about, not including the woman manning the ticket booth. Steve doesn't have to wait in a line in order to get his bus ticket, something he's pleased about.  
  
The lady at the desk looks bored. She stares at Steve with an unblinking gaze. "How may I help you today?"  
  
Steve lets his duffle bag drop to the ground so he can fumble around in his pockets for his wallet. "Er, yes... One ticket to Niagara Falls, please."  
  
The total is fair — $56 plus tax, which is less than Steve is expecting. He hadn't bothered looking up Greyhound tickets online, so he hadn't known what to expect, but he's pleased at how cheap it is, especially considering his only other options would be to take a taxi all the way there (which would be very, very difficult, as he'd have to keep switching cabs) or fly (and Steve hates going on airplanes). Steve doles out the amount with something akin to a smile on his face and takes the offered ticket from the lady's hand with a sound of gratitude.  
  
Steve checks his ticket for his departure time as he makes his way to the bus terminals. He has about a half hour until his bus leaves, so he doesn't worry about trying to find where his bus will be parked. Instead, he makes his way over to the line of benches so that he can put his belongings down and take a minute for himself.  
  
He lets his suitcase down first, carefully arranging it on one of the hard plastic seats, before dumping his duffle bag to rest on top of it. When he's sure that the duffle won't fall onto the ground, he lets himself collapse into the next seat. He slumps low and wonders vaguely if he needs to get out his asthma inhaler, but decides against it. Although he'd speed walked into the terminal, he'd had time to catch his breath, and he certainly hadn't walked any faster than necessary when looking for a place to sit. He figures that he's fine, so he keeps his hands away from the zippered portion of his duffle bag and lets his hands rest in his lap instead.  
  
He can't remember the last time he was in a Greyhound Station. He hadn't ever had a reason to leave the safety of Brooklyn before — he'd attended college and high school in this city, and even the hospital was just a taxi ride away. When his mother and he had gone to Coney Island, they'd taken a cab; Steve had managed up the funds for it. And it's not like Steve had gone on any vacations — apart from not being able to afford to, Steve had never wanted to go anywhere fun without his darling mother, and with her health in the recent times... Well, it had never happened.  
  
The station is huge. It's also very, very lonely. Without the hustle and bustle of people buying tickets and waiting for their busses, it's very quiet, almost silent. Steve can't imagine having to work here, especially at night or in the middle of the morning, when the only thing to distract from the emptiness is the occasional wayward passenger. It would get unnerving, having to stay busy with nothing to do. Steve wouldn't be able to stand it.  
  
Steve takes out a book to read while he's waiting. It's something his English teacher had recommended to him years ago, while he was still in college. He had never picked up the book during his time in her class, mostly because he'd never had the time to — he juggled school and work, with not much else in-between. Now, graduated and surviving off of commissions (and his mother's wage from her job, before) he's able to take the time to pursue interests like this.  
  
The first sentence isn't very captivating. Neither is the second, but Steve pushes through and soon finds himself enthralled in the book. By the time it's time for him to pack up and make his way to his bus, he's nearly twenty pages into the book. Regretfully, he dog-ears the page he's on before he tucks his book back into his duffle bag and loads back up. He promises to himself that he'll continue reading while he's on the bus.  
  
He carries his bags awkwardly as he makes his way to the loading platform. He's surprised when he sees that he's the only person making their way towards the Niagara Falls-bound bus, but his uncertainty dissipates when he sees the bus driver smile at him warmly.  
  
The driver unlocks the luggage compartment and helps Steve finagle his suitcase inside. He keeps his duffle out, since he's filled it with the things he'll need for his trip: things like his inhaler, his drawing pad and pencils, and even a few packaged snacks, just in case his blood sugar gets too low. He wouldn't want to pass out or, even worse, have a medical emergency while on a Greyhound bus. It would be too embarrassing, and if his ma ever found out—  
  
Oh, god, and he's suddenly choking on air. He still can't think about her.  
  
The bus driver claps him on the back, watching him with sad eyes. "You okay, son?" he asks in a deep, gravelly voice. He sounds concerned, as if Steve is his boy and he's the father, dutifully playing his role as medic and therapist.  
  
Steve tries to compose himself. He coughs once, twice, and then straightens up. He tries to sound confident as he says, "Yes, sorry."  
  
The bus driver is still looking at him with those sympathetic, warm eyes of his. He shuts the door to the luggage compartment and locks it back up while saying, "If you're sure, son."  
  
"I'm sure." Steve manages a smile that he hopes doesn't look fake and drawn-out. He probably fails at it, but the driver nods anyway. Steve follows the driver onto the bus after handing over his ticket and finds an open row a couple of seats back. He slides into the window seat and lets his duffle bag drop into the aisle seat next to him.  
  
The bus isn't empty; it's about half full, which means that the bus has probably stopped at a couple other Greyhound Stations on the way to Brooklyn. It means that the ride won't be as quiet as Steve was expecting, which is nice. A little noise will help keep him relaxed, and it means he's less likely to be spoken to, especially since the other passengers are all doubled-up in their own respective rows.  
  
Steve can remember the last time he took a Greyhound bus: fifth grade. They took a trip to the state capital as a reward for passing their exams. It had taken them a few hours to arrive, and the entirety of the fifth-grade class, teachers included, had been exhausted when they'd arrived. They had checked into the hotel they'd be staying at — it was an overnight trip, of course, because otherwise they wouldn't get back until way too early in the morning — and then had immediately gone to the Palace Theatre. Steve remembers being excited to visit the Theatre; he also remembers falling promptly asleep when the lights had dimmed, along with the rest of his class.  
  
That trip, now that Steve thinks about it, was the only real vacation Steve had ever gone on. The trip hadn't been free, of course, but the parents of several students had paid extra, which allowed Steve and one other poor student to attend the trip as well, fully paid. Sarah had been ecstatic when she'd heard, smiling brightly and excitedly chattering to Steve about what a wonderful opportunity it was.  
  
Being on a Greyhound bus hadn't meant going to the Station, of course. Instead, the bus had met them in front of their school. Steve had been almost saddened by the fact that he wouldn't get to visit the giant building he'd heard so much about, but it had all been made up to him when he received a whole seat row to himself. He had told his mother about it as soon as he'd gotten home, jabbering happily about how he got to stretch out the whole trip along two plush seats.  
  
Of course, Steve had sat alone because he hadn't any friends, something that certainly is true to this day. It makes Steve sad to think about it: graduated and friendless, as well as newly-motherless. It brings a lump up to his throat, and he has to choke back the tears. He's not going to cry before the bus has even pulled out of the terminal.  
  


* * *

  
Just before eight o'clock, the Greyhound pulls into the Station in New York City for a transfer. Steve, who was just drifting into a dreamless sleep, jerks awake when the bus comes to a quick stop. He's groggy as he watches the other passengers file off of the bus quickly, and he's the last one out. He retrieves his suitcase from the luggage compartment and ambles off with the rest of the passengers to find their new bus.  
  
The driver for this bus is a younger man that has a plain face with no distinguishing features. Steve forgets what he looks like as soon as he's finally in a seat again.  
  
The bus isn't supposed to leave for a half-hour, but Steve falls asleep anyway.

 

* * *

  
His Greyhound route has one more transfer — Steve guesses that this is why the ticket was so cheap — and it occurs in Buffalo. They reach the terminal just after six in the evening, which is a godsend because Steve has had to use the bathroom for the past two hours. He hadn't used the restroom in the bus — bus bathrooms, he'd learned, are disgusting — and he's barely able to contain himself as he weasels his way to the front so he can retrieve his bags and make a run for it.  
  
Inside the terminal bathroom, he relaxes. He sets his bags down in a corner of the restroom and locks the door, glad that it's single-occupancy. He makes quick work of relieving himself, and within minutes he's back to the main part of the terminal and searching for a place to sit.  
  
The bus driver had told them — before Steve had bolted off the bus like his life depended on it — that they had roughly a half-hour before their transfer bus would depart. Steve uses the majority of that time to finish his book; he'd spent the first six hours of the eleven-hour bus ride sleeping, and the last five had been divided up between trying to work on his commission requests, watching the on-board movie, and trying to keep his bladder in check.  
  
He finds that the book stays just as interesting all the way to the end, and he's quite disappointed when he discovers that the author hadn't written a sequel for it. He's tempted to reread the book, but he only manages to get through the first paragraph when he realizes that it's time for him to find his next bus.  
  
He makes his way to the loading platform surrounded by the gaggle of other passengers. He totes his suitcase in one hand and keeps his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He has to move carefully to avoid being shoved around by his bus _compadres_ , especially since a few of them easily are twice his size. He manages to get his bag into the luggage compartment without getting jabbed in the ribs more than twice, which he considers a victory.  
  
This is the last bus transfer, and it's also the shortest: in less than forty-five minutes, Steve will be standing in the bus terminal in Niagara Falls.  
  


* * *

  
Forty-five minutes is also, unfortunately, the exact amount of time it takes for the clouds overhead to open up and start crying out rain. Steve is just retrieving his suitcase from the luggage compartment when he starts getting splattered with large, wet raindrops. The other passengers all feel the rain, too, and they scatter, running for cover in awaiting vehicles. Steve, on the other hand, can't run, and he also doesn't have anyone waiting to pick him up, so he's stuck stomping over to the nearest shelter while getting pounded with wetness that seeps through his clothes and dampens his already chilled skin.  
  
 _Asthma_ , Steve curses to himself as he makes his way to dryness. He wishes, just for a moment, that he was a normal adult that didn't have asthma, because then he could be sprinting for cover instead of walking grumpily for it. But then he also remembers why he doesn't wish that: His ma had always told him, "Steve, I know it's unfair, but it makes you special. You wouldn't be my Steve if you were like everyone else, would you?"  
  
His ma—  
  
Oh, god, he's going to choke on his tears and the rain right here, in the middle of some city he's never visited before and with no one in sight to save him.  
  
He manages to compose himself by the time he reaches the shelter. He huddles next to an old lady that tells him she's waiting for the city bus. They make conversation while she waits, him asking her about her grandchildren (two: Amelia and Nathaniel) and her asking about why he's visiting such a strange and large city by himself (he doesn't have an answer other than the obvious).  
  
He decides to join her (he still doesn't know her name) on the bus, enthralled by the idea of getting out of the rain and maybe finding a place to settle down for the night. The bus takes fifty cents, and they don't sit together, but Steve is so relieved to be out of the cold that he doesn't really mind.  
  


* * *

  
Steve gets off at the last stop; he's the only one left on the bus, and the driver doesn't look too friendly, so Steve exits while knowing he's absolutely lost. He wanders around for ten minutes, suitcase in hand and duffle bag over the shoulder like usual, until he can find someone to ask directions from.  
  
The first woman he comes across looks at him like he's a wounded puppy. "Are you safe?" she asks, taking Steve's hands in her own.  
  
He pulls away and rushes away from her, and it isn't until later that he realizes that she probably thought he was a teenage runaway.  
  
 _Curse how young I look_ , Steve complains to himself. _Even ma didn't look her age, but she—_  
  
Steve shuts himself up before tears make an appearance.  
  
The second person Steve finds is friendlier. He points Steve in the direction of several motels and restaurants in the area, advising him to find someplace to settle down soon. "It's tourist season right now," the man advises, smiling down at Steve. "But when isn't it tourist season!"  
  
Steve doesn't know what the man means by that, but he thanks the guy anyway and wanders off to find a place to rest for the night.  
  


* * *

  
The first hotel he tries is booked for the night. "Sorry, honey," says the kind desk attendant. She does look sorry about it, so Steve thanks her quietly and leaves without making a fuss.  
  
The second place he visits is a seedy-looking motel that promises low rates and cable T.V. He doesn't see any bugs when he steps into the office to try to get a room, which looks promising, especially since the carpet looks clean as well. However, although they have availability, they won't book a room for Steve.  
  
"Why not?" Steve demands.  
  
The man at the desk looks unamused; in fact, his facial expression is painfully neutral. He reaches over to tap a sign nailed to the counter and says blandly, "You must be at least twenty-one to rent a room."  
  
"I'm twenty-five!" Steve complains.  
  
The man raises and eyebrow and casts a glance over Steve's body. After he looks back at Steve with a look that says he isn't convinced, Steve understands that this is what the first woman meant. Steve just shoves his I.D. back into his wallet and stomps out of the building, tugging his heavy suitcase behind him. Why hadn't he splurged for a leather case, he thinks to himself as he drags it out of the building. Whatever material it was made of certainly wasn't water-proof, as it had soaked up the rain like a sponge and just made the case heavier.  
  
As Steve steps out of the motel and back into the rain, he decides to stop looking for a place to stay the night for the moment and start looking for a place to eat at instead. He can feel his stomach starting to turn with nausea, something it does when it's empty, and he thinks his heart is starting to flutter. It's possible his hands are starting to get clammy as well, which is something they tend to do in the cold, but they could be doing so because his blood sugar is dropping.  
  
Steve really doesn't want his blood sugar to drop; if it gets too low, he'll wind up passed out on the ground, which, right now, is pretty muddy. Plus he'd have to go to the hospital, where undoubtedly he'll be prodded with needles and told to "check your glucose levels and keep them steady by watching your insulin and carbohydrate intakes."  
  
It's certainly not a fun thing to think about. He shivers just thinking about the way the needles would feel underneath his skin. He grimaces; god, what would his ma think if she knew he was letting his blood sugar get the better of him—  
  
No, he can't think of Sarah right now. He needs to go find a restaurant or something so he can sit down and check his glucose levels and potentially get something sugary and carb-loaded into his system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be... interesting. I can already see it.
> 
> Sorry if this one was boring -- I hope it's not, though! I contemplated doing a time-skip and jumping right to the next scene, but I ultimately decided against it. Was that a good idea or a bad idea? Tell me, please.
> 
> Comment! Let me know what you think so far and your guesses to how I'm going to take this story, even though I've already given you the inspiration/plot. I love hearing from you guys -- it makes me feel all loved and mushy inside!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Steve's mother dies and Steve finds out he's got the same illness she has. He decides to go on a road trip and complete his mother's bucket list. Steve is now in Niagara Falls, where he's unable to find a place to stay as his blood sugar is dropping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I never really got into Beth, so my characterization of her probably isn't correct.

Steve finds a little diner that's still open on the outskirts of town. It's just outside of Niagara Falls, but that doesn't bother Steve too much; all he's really looking for is somewhere to fill his belly and bring his glucose levels up back to normal. He'd checked them while he was wandering around trying to find a restaurant, and they were low: right at 70, which wasn't too bad, considering, but still way too low for someone like him.  
  
He struggles with the door to the diner — which proclaims to have the best apple pie in the city — and drags his suitcase in behind him. It stutters over the doorframe, and he has to yank at it repeatedly to get it to roll over. He nearly trips over himself when the case finally gives, but he rights himself quickly and goes to find someplace to sit.  
  
There's no hostess, but a waitress sees him enter and shouts out, "Sit anywhere you like, hon."  
  
Steve does. He finds a corner booth and stacks his suitcase and duffle bag on one seat. He slides into the seat next to it and slouches, letting himself relax. He notices that his hands are shaking, and he fumbles as he tries to unzip his duffle to retrieve one of his snacks. He can't work the zipper, though, and he panics.  
  
His head is light. He's going to faint. He is absolutely going to pass out and crack his head on the Formica-tile tabletop.  
  
"Oh, honey, are you doing okay?" comes a concerned voice. Steve manages to bring his head up and sees that it's the same waitress that told him to find a seat. She immediately sees his pale face and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I'll be right back, honey."  
  
She leaves before Steve can tell her _wait, don't go, I need help,_ but he can't seem to find his voice anyway. She returns in a minute though, carrying a glass full of dark liquid that Steve hopes to god is full-calorie and not diet.  
  
God is in his favor. The waitress sets the glass down in front of him while saying, "Have a sip, hon. It's just Coke."  
  
He's grateful as she helps him get the straw in between his lips. He sucks greedily until he can feel the lightness in his head disappear, and then he pulls back. He's a little embarrassed; maybe he should've stopped when he'd discovered his blood sugar was low to eat, instead of trying to make it the entire journey. He certainly wouldn't be in this position then. Still, he's certainly grateful, and he says as much: "Thank you."  
  
The waitress still looks worried. She smiles at him, though it looks a little forced. "Are you sure you're okay? Do you have someone I need to call?"  
  
"My— No, I think I'm okay now. Thank you," Steve says hastily. He can still feel the beginning of his chopped-up sentence, but he tries to shove it out of his mind.  
  
The waitress leaves after confirming that he's okay one last time and telling him that someone will be with him soon. Steve goes to digging through his duffle bag after she's gone. His hands are still shaking, though considerably less so. He manages to unzip his bag this time, and he rummages through until he finds his glucose monitor. Within a minute he's got his results back, and he's glad to see that they're higher than before; too low for his liking, but definitely elevated in contrast to before.  
  
Steve suddenly notices that he's completely soaked. His hair is flopping into his eyes, dripping rivulets of water down his face. His sweater is sticking to his chest, thin and see-through, and his jeans feel uncomfortable against his thighs. He's probably soaked the seat he's sitting in, and the thought bothers him enough that he starts rummaging through his suitcase for a change of clothes.  
  
The bathroom isn't single-occupancy, but Steve doesn't bother going into a stall to start changing. He peels off his socks and shoes first, both of which are absolutely drenched. His socks squelch as he takes them off, and he winces at the sound. His jeans come off next, and it's a weird sensation as he drags them off of his thin legs; the fabric is catching on his skin, rough and damp. His sweater is last, and it's yanked off readily enough. Steve throws all of his clothes into a pile on the floor in front of him and gets to drying himself off with paper towels from the dispenser.  
  
They're not enough, not really, but they work well enough for his purpose. His hair gets partially dry and he manages to dry his feet most of the way. He runs a towel over his thighs to make putting on his new jeans easier, and rubs a towel over his face to dry it as well. He makes quick work of getting redressed, this time opting for a jacket as well as a sweater. It'll probably still be raining when Steve eventually leaves the diner, and he doesn't want to get soaked through again.  
  
One of the waitresses gives him a plastic bag when he asks for one, and he shoves his sopping clothes into it. He ties the handles of the bag into a knot and shoves the entire thing back into his suitcase. He doesn't want to deal with his clothes right now, and it's not like they'll dry for a while, not when they're completely wrecked with wetness.  
  
There's a sudden commotion: someone shouts out, "You're late!"  
  
A deep, throaty response: "It's raining!"  
  
The first person again: "It stopped raining ten minutes ago and I know you took your car today, so don't even give me that!"  
  
Steve doesn't bother to turn around to see who's just come into the building. He would, if he were feeling any semblance of normal, but right now he just feels exhausted and upset. He hasn't been having a good day, obviously — so far, he's woken up early, ridden a bus for so long his legs got numb and his backside started burning, gotten rained on, gotten denied a place to stay for the night, and had his blood sugar dip so low he started to see blackness around the edges of his vision. Right now, all he wants to do is sip some more on the Coke the nice waitress brought him and get something carb-heavy into his system.  
  
He pulls his sketchpad out of his suitcase while he's waiting for someone to take his order. He doesn't even bother to look at the menu before doing so, just slides the pad and a case of drawing pencils out of his bag. He sets up station right on the table, fanning his pencils out to the right of his sketchpad like always. He warms himself up by doodling: his Coke glass, the napkin dispenser on the table, the diner's logo. It's nothing fancy, just quick sketches while he finds where his pencils fit best in his hand, where his sketchbook needs to lay so he can get the shading just right.  
  
Steve had started drawing when he was a little kid, stuck in the hospital for days with nothing to do. He'd run out of books quickly — he was a good reader, even with his eye problems and dyslexia — and had gotten tired of the same re-runs on the television just as fast. The nurses had introduced him to it, bringing him sheets of blank computer paper and crayon stubs. Steve had drawn anything he could think of: the sink in the bathroom, the way his feet stuck up under the covers, the flowers that adorned the nurse's station. He had been terrible at first, but something about drawing had struck a nerve in him, and pretty soon he was begging his mom for drawing lessons.  
  
("Please, ma," he'd begged, looking up at her with big, pleading eyes.  
  
His mother had just looked at him sadly. "I wish I could," she'd said, slumping her shoulders. "But I just can't afford it right now. I'll try, but...")  
  
Steve had saved up for drawing lessons, taking odd jobs from his neighbors until he was able to cough up the money for the class. He had been so excited, and he'd been thrilled when the instructor had told him he had "great promise." His time doodling Disney characters and basic geometric shapes had certainly helped him when he'd tried his hand at sketching out the faces of real people.  
  
And his love of drawing as a child hadn't disappeared, either; rather, it had grown. Steve had taken that love of his through high school, where he took art class after art class and helped paint the sets for his school's theater productions. In college, he'd enrolled in an art degree program and had taken as many electives as he possibly could. His teachers had praised him, both for the way he drew ("So expressive, Steve, so dark," one of his teachers had gushed) and his length of time doing so ("You've been at this for longer than some artists!" one of his college professors had told him).  
  
Steve can't help but to get a little lost in his own little world while he draws. It's just something that happens, as natural to him as breathing or having his heart beat in his frail chest. He barely has to watch the tip of his pencil drift over the page, scratching out lines of gray; he just lets his hands do the work while he lets his mind wander.  
  
He's broken out of his daydreams when his waiter appears, asking for his order. Steve shakes his head a little to bring himself back into focus and then picks up his menu. He names off the first item he sees that comes with bread and then hands over his menu.  
  
When he does hand over his menu, he comes eye-to-eye with a startlingly attractive man. Those cheekbones could kill, and they would have made Steve swoon if he hadn't been so down. The fact of the matter is, though, that Steve is too nerve-wracked to do anything more than just blink unsteadily at his waiter. The waiter's face is a little fuzzy, though that could just be because Steve just fixed his glucose levels and his mind usually is a little hazy after doing so. Steve isn't worried about it.  
  
He gets back to drawing as soon as the waiter's departed. He flips to the next page in his drawing pad — he'd managed to fill his other page up with meaningless doodles — and selects a new pencil. He lets himself get lost in his head again while he draws, letting lines flow out of his pencil however they wish. Steve's always found that his best work comes when he's unfocused, when his hands do the drawing rather than his mind. It's easier to draw without worrying over every line, every dot, every idea.  
  
He doesn't even realize that the waiter's returned until he hears a sharp intake of breath above him. The guy is blushing, which makes no sense until Steve looks down at his drawing pad and sees what he's been sketching. He's immediately mortified.  
  
There, staring back up at him on the page, is his waiter's face.  
  


* * *

  
Bucky is both mortified and astounded. He's mortified because he's been caught by his (incredibly attractive) customer, staring down at the guy's drawing like it's burned him. He's also astounded, because the drawing is incredibly lifelike and possibly the best thing Bucky's ever seen in his whole life. His jawbones are sharp in the picture, just like they are in real life, and Bucky has to hold himself back from reaching up to touch his face just to check, because, one, he's still holding a tray in his hands and two, that would be a little weird.  
  
"That's... really good," he says, trying not to fumble for his words. He can still feel the blush on his face, reddening his cheeks and quite possibly his forehead as well. "I, uh— Sorry. Here's your food. I'll be back." He serves his customer as quickly as he can before he shoves his tray under his arm and darts back into the kitchen.  
  
"Shit, Beth," he hisses as soon as the doors swing shut behind him. He lets his tray clatter onto one of the tables and sinks down into one of the chairs by the window. "I really fucked up."  
  
Beth steps out from where she'd been washing her hands. Her hair is tied back into a ponytail, long blonde hair ending mid-back. She's a pretty girl, a little daft, none at all Bucky's type, but she gives good advice and is usually level-headed. "The sad little blonde guy?" she asks. She's chewing gum again and is talking in-between chews; Bucky makes a mental note to remind her later that she's not supposed to be eating in the kitchen.  
  
"Yes, the blonde guy," Bucky groans. He ignores her descriptor of the guy, even if it is true. He sinks his head into his hands. "He was drawing something and I looked at it and I just— Ugh." He cuts himself off mid-thought to groan again. "I can't go back out there, Beth. I completely embarrassed myself. And him, too."  
  
Beth's perked up. "He was drawing? What was it?"  
  
"Me," Bucky says emphatically. He doesn't lift his head from his hands. God, he's embarrassed — not only had he completely sneaked up on the guy, but he'd eyed the guy's artwork for what? Three, four minutes? And then he'd had the audacity to compliment his work before apologizing? God, the guy has got to think Bucky's the biggest douche in the world, along with the world's most vain. Bucky's a mess. He needs to go back out and apologize again, right now, he needs to—  
  
"Are you going to ask him out?" Beth says, completely derailing Bucky's train of thought. She's back at the sink, washing her hands again.  
  
"No! I don't know him, so no!" Bucky snaps. He gets up to join Beth at the sink and they stand side-by-side while they wash their hands.  
  
Beth is quiet for a minute, so all Bucky can hear is the clatter coming from the cooks and the snapping sound Beth's making with her gum. Finally she says, "Is it because he's small? Because I know you typically don't go for the whole—"  
  
_Tiny and weak_ is what she's going to say. Bucky can't really deny it — he's always been apt to go for types like himself, tall and lean and dominating. The guy he's been waiting on is tiny and thin and looks like he'd break in half if the wind blew wrong. But there's something in the guy that's a whole hell of a lot different than the guys Bucky usually goes for — he's artistic, which is something new, and he's got long, thin fingers that Bucky can't help but to imagine drifting over his skin the same way his pencil is drifting over his paper. And there's something in the guy's posture that is so different, and yet so familiar — he's slumped over his seat in a defeated way, like someone punched the breath out of him. It makes Bucky want to wrap the guy in a blanket, slide over a hot mug of tea, and play therapist with him.  
  
"It's not that," Bucky deflects. "I just— I don't even know his name, for one. And I don't even know if he's into guys — he probably isn't."  
  
Beth turns off the sink with a paper towel and then takes another to dry her hands with. She doesn't say anything, but she watches Bucky with a careful eye, like she's trying to figure out what he's thinking. Eventually, she says, "Go help Grant out with the fryer. I'll be back in a few."  
  
Bucky doesn't bother asking where she's going; she's got her own table to attend to, a six-top that has children. Beth always makes a point to visit tables with kids often, because kids tend to be messy and parents tend to tip well; the quicker she gets to a spill, and the faster she cleans it up, the higher the tip tends to be. Parents understand the struggle of messes. Bucky does, too, and so he doesn't mind when she runs out on him with instructions to help their newest recruit.  
  
Bucky goes to help Grant out with the fryer. It's shoved in the back of the kitchen, and Grant is standing by it looking perplexed. Grant's new and he refuses to share anything about his life; Bucky doesn't know his last name, or where he's from, or how old he is. Well, Bucky thinks, he now knows one thing about the guy: he doesn't know how to use the fryer.  
  
Bucky lets himself get a little lost in his head while he directs Grant; he can manage the fryer with both eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back (he's done so before, but don't tell his boss), so he figures that he'll be okay if he lets his mind wander a little bit.  
  
He's curious about why his customer is looking so down in the dumps — he'd had a frown on his face, deep and arching, like he was physically pained. He'd looked unfocused, eyes staring down at his paper but slightly glazed, as if he weren't present to what he was doing. And he'd looked so confused, like there was an inner turmoil going through his head...  
  
And the look on his face when Bucky had inhaled in shock. God, Bucky wishes he could turn back time. His face— He'd been mortified just as much as Bucky had, and his face had immediately paled. He'd looked down at his drawing pad like he had no idea what his pencil had drawn, and then he'd shoved it away, looking terrified.  
  
God, Bucky could beat himself up right now. He'd invaded the guy's personal space, looked over his shoulder at the most inopportune time (and how many times had his mother told him not to, again?), and then run away after giving a hasty apology that was barely even real.  
  
"And this is the chicken fryer," Bucky eventually realizes he's saying as he drops out of his head. "Chicken only — don't even think about sticking anything else in there unless you want to risk salmonella."  
  
Grant is next to him, nodding stiffly. "I've had worse," he offers, but doesn't say anything objective to Bucky's words.  
  
Bucky doesn't know what he said while he was in his head, so he just asks, "Anything else you need to know?"  
  
"No," Grant says. "I think I've got it, thanks."  
  
"Sure," Bucky says easily. He ducks away from the fryer and goes to re-wash his hands, because somehow he's got grease all over them. It's disgusting — it feels slimy between his fingers and it's caked his nails a dark color.  
  
Beth comes back into the kitchen carrying a wad of wet napkins. She tosses them into the trash and goes to re-wash her hands once more. She's smiling as she does so, still popping bubbles with her gum, and Bucky doesn't know what the look on her face is for. It almost looks like—  
  
"His name is Steve," she announces to Bucky, her smile turning devilish. "And yes, he is gay, so there's no reason not to ask him out."  
  
Bucky can feel his mouth dropping open. "Please don't tell me you walked up to his table and asked him that," he pleads. He can feel the mortification coming back on, can feel his cheeks heating up. This is it, he is going to absolutely die if it turns out that Beth walked out there and asked the guy what his name and sexual preferences are—  
  
"I didn't," she says defensively.  
  
Bucky relaxes a little.  
  
"I just walked up to his table asked for his name," she continues. She pops another bubble with her gum. "And then I asked him out," she adds devilishly once Bucky relaxes some more.  
  
Bucky can feel his jaw hanging open again. His cheeks are undoubtedly red. "You did what?" he splutters. He can't possibly feel any more embarrassed right now.  
  
"What?" Beth asks, like she has no idea she's the reason why Bucky is turning pink. "Relax, he said no. Because he's, well, _gay_."  
  
Bucky can't decide what to feel right now. He's pretty conflicted: he's mortified that Beth practically interrogated his customer just to find out his sexuality, but he's also a little pleased that his cute customer is gay, which means Bucky maybe has a chance. Then again, maybe he doesn't — cute guys generally are taken, and cute _artists_ are undoubtedly so. The guy is probably going to go home to a one-bedroom apartment that he shares with his boyfriend and his dog and—  
  
"And he thinks you're pretty cute too," Beth adds, breaking Bucky out of his head.  
  
He stares at her. He's made up his mind: he's mortified, absolutely, positively so. He can feel his ears getting hot. "What?" he says, and he's embarrassed to hear that his voice comes out as a squeak.  
  
Beth looks pleased with herself. She spits out her gum into the trash can and unwraps a new piece. As she shoves it into her red-lipped mouth, she says smugly, "I told him you thought he was cute. He thinks you're pretty neat, too."  
  
"Why would you do that?" Bucky can feel dread starting to creep up his spine now. He's going to have to go out and face the guy, take his plates away and offer dessert, and he's going to have to try to hide the redness of his face and—  
  
Beth taps the watch that adorns her right wrist. "Time for you to go back out," she teases. She holds open the door to the kitchen and waves him through. "Tell me how it goes."  
  
Bucky's still standing still, out of the way of the door. "Beth, I can't. You gotta— Can you—"  
  
"No. Now go out there and face it like a man. Ask him out already." Beth jerks her head towards the door. Reluctantly, Bucky starts to move.  
  
God, he's going to be redder than a tomato by the time he reaches the table.  
  


* * *

  
Steve has only been picking at his food; he ate the bread, because he really needed the carbs, but he only poked at the rest of his plate. The only thing other than the bread that he had completely consumed had been his Coke, and that was only because he'd needed it, too. He took two bites out of his pork chop (or is it pork? Steve still isn't completely sure) and even stomached a forkful of steamed vegetables. It hadn't been the best food he'd had, but it was okay, and it tasted bland enough that he'd figured that it wouldn't upset his stomach. That would suck.  
  
Steve is also mortified. He's been mortified since Beth the Waitress sidled up to him and asked flirtatiously, "Hi, there. What's your name?"  
  
Steve had complied, of course, because he'd been taught well by his mother to always give his name when asked. He hadn't even flinched, but when her follow-up question had been, "Do you want to go out with me?" he'd freaked a little.  
  
(And if by little he meant _looked bug-eyed and got out of his trance enough to blurt out, "God, no,"_ then yes, he only freaked out a little bit.)  
  
Her next words had been, "Okay, cool. So listen, Bucky, your server, can't stop gushing about how cute you are. Do you think he's cute?"`  
  
Steve had stumbled out, "Uh, yes?"  
  
And then Beth had flounced away, chomping on gum that smelled like cinnamon, and Steve had promptly freaked out some more. He had been mortified: the tips of his ears turned red, and he felt heat flush on his cheeks. God, such a schoolboy—  
  
And now his server is standing in front of him, looking just as red as Steve is, and saying, "I hope everything was all right tonight. Would you like to look at our dessert menu?"  
  
He's making a point to not look Steve in the eyes, and Steve can't help look away, either. He's embarrassed, and he guesses that his server — Bucky, right? — is just as embarrassed as well. The only good thing about this whole thing is that Beth the Waitress had somehow pulled him out of his slump; he's not so down anymore, more hyped up and on-edge than feeling exhausted from his glucose down.  
  
"No, thank you," Steve finds himself saying. He watches as Bucky the Waiter — because that's all he is, totally, even though now that Steve is out of his slump he can fully appreciate his waiter's backside — takes his plates and leaves to go back into the kitchen.  
  
Steve tries to remember the last time he'd been on a date. God, it must have been what, college? Yes, college, with a tall brunette with muscles (just like Bucky's, Steve finds himself thinking) that was an engineering major. Steve tries to remember his name — Brock? Yes, Brock sounds right: an arrogant name for an arrogant man.  
  
God, Steve hopes Bucky isn't like Brock.  
  
He finds himself, now that he's completely out of his slump, thinking about his waiter. Tall, muscled, lean. Brunette, attractive, and apparently interested in Steve. That's new — usually Steve's the one to fall first, but it turns out that his waiter might have developed a small crush before Steve had. It's interesting — why does Bucky the Waiter like Steve? It can't be for his body — he's too skinny, too bony, too slow, but  he can't figure out why else his waiter would be crushing. Would it be wrong if he asked Bucky to sit with him and let him interrogate him?  
  
Bucky obviously makes up his mind first, because he slides into the seat opposite Steve when he comes back with the check. Beth is right behind him, so Steve guesses that it's her who's forcing this. He's not sure if he minds or—  
  
"I'm Bucky," the waiter blurts.  
  
"Steve," Steve says, blinking.  
  
They don't talk for a while, just sit in silence, but eventually Bucky goes, "Uh, so, I'm sorry about peeking at your drawing."  
  
Steve flushes some more. He shouldn't have been drawing — or, at least, he should have been paying attention to what he had been drawing. He can't trust himself to keep it PG anymore, or at least nondescript. God, he needs to—  
  
"I'm really sorry about Beth," Bucky says, and it sounds almost like a confession. Steve can't tell why. "She just really thought we'd hit it off, I guess."  
  
Steve deflates. Does that mean that Bucky doesn't really like him?  
  
Bucky must sense this, because he adds hastily, "But I do think you're pretty cute. She wasn't just saying that or anything."  
  
Steve can't remember the last time he was so lost for words. Where is the boy that got into fights every afternoon? "Okay," he manages to say.  
  
"I don't usually—" Bucky starts, and then he cuts himself off. He tries again: "I never—"  
  
Beth is still standing near there table, listening closely. When Bucky can't seem to find his words, she chimes in, "His heart hurt when he saw you looking so sad."  
  
"I didn't—"  
  
"I wasn't—"  
  
"You were totally sad," Beth says, directing her comment right at Steve. "You looked like someone kicked your puppy or something."  
  
Steve feels himself shrink at that. The redness is leaving his cheeks, and he's going white instead. Is he going to have an anxiety attack? Is he going to faint? He's not sure.  
  
Bucky must notice Steve's face going slack, because he says, "Beth, go away," and then he turns to Steve and grabs his slender hands in his own thick ones. "Hey, are you okay?" he asks, staring Steve straight in the eye now.  
  
Steve has to focus to get his words out. He tries to smile, but it comes out wavery. Are his eyes starting to water? "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm okay. I just— Yeah, I was looking pretty down, I guess. My mom died a couple days ago and I just—"  
  
"Shit, man, I'm sorry," Bucky says.  
  


* * *

  
Somehow, the conversation gets better. Bucky gets to regale Steve with stories about terrible customers, and Steve tells Bucky college horror stories. Beth makes sure to keep customers out of Bucky's section so that Steve and Bucky can continue talking, and Bucky makes a mental note to thank her later for it.  
  
However, all good things must come to an end, because eventually Bucky makes a mistake and asks, "So if you're from Brooklyn, how come you're all the way out here on the western part of the state?"  
  
Steve sombers up immediately. "My ma wanted go on a road trip," he starts, and Bucky immediately feels bad.  
  
"You don't have to answer," Bucky blurts before Steve can finish his thought. "If it's too hard."  
  
Steve's eyes are burning holes into Bucky now. "My ma wanted to go on a road trip," he repeats, and Bucky can tell that Steve wants to get it all out. "We made a whole list. Here." He digs it out and passes it over so Bucky can see what he's talking about. "She didn't get to visit any of the places, so I figured I'd do it for her," he explains.  
  
Bucky's eyes are roaming over the list. Some of these places are far — some he's never even heard of before. He's entranced. "So you're, like, avenging her memory?"  
  
Steve beams, but he looks a little sad as he does so. "Exactly! And I mean, I've always wanted to travel, so it works out. I figured that I'd start over in Niagara Falls and then just work down the list. Maybe I'll head down to Pennsylvania next and—"  
  
Bucky tunes out. Steve is full of hopes and dreams, excited to get to wander around the United States, and Bucky... isn't. He can't do anything more than listen to what Steve's saying, because he's never going to get to do this. He can't travel — can't pack up his bags, take time off of work. He can't just leave — he has family, his sister Rebecca and his parents and all of his friends, and they're all here in this tiny little town. He hasn't gotten a chance to see the Falls, and he's less than a half hour away from them. And here Steve is, chattering away about going everywhere, looking excited and a little melancholy, and Bucky wants to be happy for him, because wow, look at what Steve gets to do, but he's... jealous. That's the best way to put it — jealous. Jealous that Steve gets to go wherever he wants and Bucky's stuck in this stupid little town because his car is actually his mom's, and he doesn't have anything more than a high school education because he's poor and—  
  
"Do you maybe want to check out the Falls with me tomorrow?" Steve suddenly blurts out.  
  
Out the window goes Bucky's sad inner soliloquy. This is an adventure; he jumps on the chance. "Sure," he says eagerly. He tries to remember his work schedule. Does he even have work? He can't remember. "What time?"  
  
Steve shakes his head a little and narrows his eyes like he's trying to think. "Ten?" he offers.  
  
"Ten is perfect," Bucky says, even though it might not be. He can beg off of work if he really has to — his boss has been asking him to stop working overtime anyway, and a day off might be good. It might mean he won't be able to pay his rent for the month, but a date with a cute guy in a place he's always wanted to visit? Count him in. "Do you, uh, want me to pick you up? Or you can pick me up, or we can drive ourselves, or—"  
  
He knows he's rambling, he knows he is, and Steve does, too, because he cuts him off, saying, "We can both just make our way over. I don't know where I'm staying for the night, anyway, so that's probably better. But we can exchange numbers?" He looks hopeful.  
  
"Yes. Definitely." Bucky fumbles for a pen and his notepad, dragging both out from one of his  apron pockets. He tears a sheet of paper from his notepad and rips it in half. He writes his number on one half and then passes both slips to Steve along with the pen; Steve writes his number down on the clean half and then slips both the paper and the pen back to Bucky.  
  
They stare at each other awkwardly for a minute. Eventually, Bucky says, "I'll text you?"  
  
"Sure. I'll see you tomorrow?"  
  
"Definitely."  
  
It's still awkward. Why is it awkward? They're both adults, right?  
  
Right?  
  
As Steve gets up from the table, Bucky coughs and says, "Hey, you are at least eighteen, right?"  
  
Steve blinks back owlishly at him. "Twenty five," he says sourly. It sounds to Bucky like he's been asked this question before.  
  
"Me, too," Bucky offers.  
  
Steve leaves. Once he's gone, Beth comes back over and claps a hand onto Bucky's shoulder. She's still chewing her gum, making obnoxious chomping sounds. "Sounds like you two hit it off!" she says happily.  
  
Bucky's in a daze, the reality of it all hitting him in the face like a freight train. "We're going on a date tomorrow."  
  
"Nice," Beth says. "Need me to cover your shift?"  
  
"Please," Bucky professes. "Also, what do people wear when they visit Niagara Falls?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting this yesterday! I was really unsure of how to write this chapter, because all my ideas were conflicting. (Plus my calculus homework was literally killing me.) Hopefully this one's okay! 
> 
> Comments, as always, are extremely welcome. I do read all of them, and I will try to start responding to some. <3 Please tell me if you liked, disliked, loved, or hated this chapter, and tell me what you think I'll make happen next! I love criticism just as much as I love all of my readers.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky visit the Falls.

 Niagara Falls is hot.  
  
Which should be expected, really, because New York is the epitome of extreme temperatures. The winters are mind-numbingly cold, pneumonia- and frostbite-causing. And both Steve and Bucky have lived in New York long enough to know that the summers are just as bad, hot mornings and humid nights, dry wind and balmy, feverish suns. The fact that they're surrounded by the huge waterfall doesn't help, especially since it causes the air around them to be sticky and humid.  
  
Bucky attributes the heat he's feeling to the fact that he's next to Steve, the unfairly hot customer he served the day before.  
  
Steve attributes the heat _he's_ feeling to the thick sweatshirt he's wearing, because he'd wanted to be prepared _just_ in case it decided to rain and turn muggy again — which it doesn't appear to be doing, much to his utter chagrin.  
  
They meet up outside the Niagara Falls Visitor Center, which is just outside the actual waterfall. They're only inside the Center for a few minutes, choosing to head straight for the waterfall rather than check out the amenities the Falls has to offer (namely: boat rides that they're both sure they'll get soaked on). They decide to head straight to Luna Island, bypassing the easier way to see the Falls, and so they stark trekking along the pathway to the viewpoint.  
  
Halfway to Luna Island, Bucky spots a side area and ducks into it. Steve follows dutifully along behind him and eyes the small waterfall that's behind the guardrail. It's unimposing, a small little trickle of water that Steve bets he could swim in. Not that he would, anyway, but it's pleasing for him to know that he won't die if he somehow accidentally falls into the water.  
  
Bucky poses in front of the guardrail, eyes alight with mischief. "Steve!" he bellows, drawing the attention of several people walking along the main path. He doesn't have the courtesy to look embarrassed, instead grinning widely as Steve flushes red. "Take a picture of me with the waterfall!"  
  
This whole little trip is exciting for Bucky. It has to be — he's most likely never going to get to do something like this again in his life. No college degree, and he'd barely graduated high school; he works in a tiny little diner in an often-missed town; he has no savings and he lives with his parents. He can't afford to do this, to explore. Hell, he can barely afford to take a day off of work — if he hadn't been having such a good week, tip-wise, he would've had to say no, because gas for his car and money to go towards rent and electricity (because he's a man of principle, damnit, and he's not going to just laze around and not pay his keeps). So this is exciting, because it truly is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and he gets to do it with a cute guy, and maybe he'll get to do this again one day with Steve, maybe not Niagara Falls or anywhere special but—  
  
Of course, it's not like Steve is going to want to spend more time with Bucky anyway, not when he finds out that Bucky's thoughts are rambling and he's just as awkward out loud as he is in his head.  
  
And it's not like they could be anything more than friends either, because the only person he's out to is Beth and—  
  
He's overthinking this. It's just a date. Is it a date? Maybe they're just going as friends. But then again, they just met, so how can they be—  
  
Steve snaps him out of his reverie by saying, "Sure, your camera or mine?"  
  
Bucky blinks once, twice, and then owlishly says, "Yours is cool." He winces to himself inwardly as he says it, but he can't take it back. Instead, he shifts into a position he hopes doesn't look awkward — leaning up against the guardrail, hands gripping it on either side — and shoots off a grin.  
  
After the picture is taken, they set off again towards Luna Island. They walk at a slow pace so that Steve doesn't get overtaken by his asthma, but Bucky doesn't mind; it gives him time to think, to place his thoughts, to stare and grin at Steve's red face...  
  
Steve thinks the same. It's nice to be out here, in the blinding sun, sweltering heat; it almost makes him forget. _Almost_ being the operative word, because he doesn't forget, not really, but being by the Falls gives some direction to his thoughts, and he lets his mind linger over thoughts of waterfalls and city life and cute boys named Bucky...  
  
The next time they get off the track of the path is when Steve spots a creature running away, and he dashes after it immediately. The quickness in which he moves away from Bucky's side startles the taller man, but he just takes it in stride and follows after Steve as soon as he's realized where the man's dashing off to. Steve takes them to another side path, and he trails the creature — a rabbit, Bucky soon sees — until they get to a clearing. There, Steve yanks out his sketchpad, plops down onto the dusty ground, and starts sketching.  
  
It's enticing, really, to see Steve's hands drifting over his drawing pad. Bucky's eyes watch the way his pen floats over the page, inking line after line of dark color that ultimately turns into recognizable shapes. Bucky can see the outline of the rabbit within minutes, all long-eared and fluffy-tailed, and it really is amazing to see. Bucky isn't much of a drawer; he can barely write legibly, much less take a pen and maneuver it enough to create something so realistic-looking. Bucky's a little jealous, too — he kind of wants Steve to be drawing him instead of the rabbit.  
  
Steve's hands are mesmerizing in their own way, too. The calluses from holding his pencils so tight; the scars from numerous paper cuts; the blots of ink in the creases of his palms and underneath his fingernails. Bucky simultaneously wants to hold those hands and watch them move forever. There's something intriguing about the way Steve's hands are two sizes too big for his body, just like the Grinch's heart was three sizes too small. Bucky's never cared about hands before, but he likes watching Steve's; he likes the daintiness of those hands, too big and too careful.  
  
Steve has never seen what Bucky's currently seeing when he looks at his hands. They're big and gawky, and they aren't useful for much other than curling into fists. They could have been good, if he were a foot wider and two feet taller, but they're not worth much on his tiny body. They hold drawing pencils well and inking pens even better, but they tend to be awkward and clumsy. Petite women always tended to have small hands and dainty fingers; Steve, tiny as he is, doesn't. It's confusing. And it's difficult sometimes too, because there's nothing people like to say more than to comment on how Steve's hands are too big for his body, or that Steve's too small for his hands. He'd gotten those comments from his art teachers, too, who'd arched their brows curiously before he'd put pen to paper, and then their comments had changed to ones of respect and admiration.  
  
No, Steve doesn't like his hands, but Bucky does.  
  
Steve finishes sketching the rabbit and tucks his sketchbook back away. He feels uncomfortably warm now, especially after having been sitting in the same spot, sun beating on his back, for at least ten minutes. He can feel sweat starting to line his forehead, and he's glad he had the forethought to at least spray on some deodorant before leaving his hotel room.  
  
And yes, he'd managed to find a place to stay, even if he had to argue for ten minutes that yes, his I.D. is real, his name is Steven Grant Rogers and he certainly is at least twenty-one, would you like to call the cops to have them verify?  
  
They head back onto the path and starting walking towards Luna Island again. They get behind a couple of giggly teenagers who are wearing shorts that are much too short and tops that are much too see-through. If Bucky weren't so enthralled with the small blonde that's currently keeping pace next to him, he might have been inclined to eye them a little more than necessary. As that isn't the case, he just smiles ruefully at their youth and ignores their conversation.  
  
They walk in silence until Steve pipes up and asks, "Have you ever been here before?"  
  
"No," Bucky replies. He glances down at Steve, who's busy brushing his hair back from his forehead. He doesn't bother to elaborate, only counters back, "Have you?"  
  
Steve glances up at Bucky through his long, dark eyelashes. God, Bucky could die looking at that all day. "Nope, this is my first time, too. I'm from the other side of the state, so... you know. Never got around to it."  
  
Bucky can't tell if Steve's poking around, trying to figure out why Bucky's never visited the national landmark that lives less than an hour away from him. Instead, he changes the subject, asking, "So, tell me more about you. I mean, I know you're an artist, but..."  
  
Steve's lips twist into a smile. "There's not much to say about me," he confesses, but there's still a glimmer in his eyes that makes Bucky almost swoon. "I was born in Brooklyn; I've lived there pretty much my whole life. I was a pretty sick kid, but not so much anymore. I wanted to join the army, but I didn't make the cut, so I just... turned into an artist, I guess."  
  
"No shit — I'm Brooklyn-born too. And your favorite color?" Bucky implores.  
  
Steve huffs out a laugh. "Blue," he advises. "It's one of the only colors I can see, being colorblind and all."  
  
"I didn't know you were colorblind."  
  
"And anemic, and scoliosis-ridden, and partially deaf." Steve's smile turns rueful, and he almost looks a little sad, though Bucky can't tell why. "Among other things."  
  
"Man, how are you not dead?" Bucky means for it to be a joke, but Steve's lips don't twist upward.  
  
"Don't know," Steve says, not elaborating.  
  
They stay quiet until they reach Luna Island. Steve seems to perk up when they get there, immediately prancing over to the guardrail so that he can lean over and take in a deep breath of Niagara Falls-y goodness. There's a small little smile on his face, and it makes Bucky happy to see it; he likes seeing Steve smile. He joins Steve by the waterfall, standing on his left side and leaning out as well. The Falls aren't close enough to throw water into his face, but it feels nice anyway.  
  
Steve digs out his sketchbook here, too, and starts sketching out the waterfall. Bucky stands a few feet behind him, just watching Steve as Steve's eyes flicker between the giant waterfall and his sketchbook. It's enchanting, somehow, enticing, watching Steve drag his pencil across his paper. And it's wonderful, really, Bucky thinks so, watching Steve get so involved in his work, letting his hair flop into his eyes and his lips become chewed red with effort. Bucky wants to kiss those lips — the lips belonging to a man he's known for only a few hours, met the day before.  
  
He can't believe he's falling this hard, this fast.  
  
He's going to mess it up somehow, he just knows it.  


* * *

  
They end up going to lunch together as well. Bucky picks a place that's a walk away from the Falls — Rainforest Cafe, just because he's never been — and they get sat in a booth far from the door, hidden in the corner. It's kind of funny to watch Steve wrinkle his nose whenever the sound of an animal — is that a lion? — blares out through the loudspeakers. It makes Bucky laugh whenever Steve jumps in his seat when loud noises erupt from behind his head.  
  
They split an appetizer. While Steve's busy tearing a mozzarella stick with his teeth, Bucky gets up the nerve to say, "So, this was kinda fun."  
  
Steve stops eating mid-bite and stares at Bucky. "It was," he agrees. He doesn't really understand where Bucky is going with his statement, so he doesn't say anything else. Instead, he goes back to eating his cheese stick.  
  
Bucky bites the bullet again and presses on, "Hanging out with you was fun. I'd maybe like to do this again sometime."  
  
"Asking me on a second date already? We haven't even finished our first," Steve teases.  
  
Bucky nearly chokes on his own cheese stick. He has to pound himself on the chest several times and take big, gulping sips of water before he's able to talk again. This was a date? He must have died or something, because there's no way that this is a date. Steve's too good for him — all doe-eyed and nimble-handed. Bucky's not good enough, not for Steve the brave adventurer with a heart of gold and a drawing pad full of art.  
  
"Date?" he repeats when he finally get his breathing under control.  
  
Steve's smile wavers and his shoulders start to droop a little. "Sorry," he says hastily. "Not a date— I just thought—"  
  
"No, it's definitely a date," Bucky interjects. He's found his voice again. "Definitely."  
  
He's a little mortified, and he's sure his face is turning red. He's just glad that they're in the corner where the lights don't reach, because the only way this can get worse is if Steve sees how pink his cheeks are turning. He'd completely derailed Steve by fumbling for his words. He didn't like seeing Steve's face drop like that.  
  
Steve's smile is back, though, bright and lively. "Good," he says, and picks up another mozzarella stick.  


* * *

  
After they've eaten — and Bucky's paid, because he's not about to let Steve pick up his wallet — they go on another walk around the Falls. Bucky gets to chatter on about how excited he is to be visiting this part of New York, and Steve gets to entertain Bucky with stories about college and Brooklyn.  
  
(And Bucky totally isn't jealous about getting to hear about Steve's college experiences, except maybe he is, just a little bit.)  
  
Steve seems to come to a thought just as they reach Luna Island for the second time that day. He stops walking in the middle of the path, causing an old man to nearly run into him, and glances up at Bucky with his brows furrowed. "You said you're from Brooklyn, too, right?"  
  
Bucky doesn't know where this is going, except maybe he does. "Yeah," he reaffirms. "Born and raised."  
  
"So why are you here now?" Steve asks. He's still glancing up at Bucky with that confused look on his face, like he has absolutely no idea why someone would move hours away from the big city of Brooklyn, NY, to a tiny little town on the western side.  
  
Bucky's had his answer rehearsed for years now. "It got too expensive," he says, shrugging. He reaches out a hand to tug on Steve's sweatshirt and says, "Come on, let's keep going, get out of the way."  
  
When he touches Steve's arm, he realizes that the smaller man is starting to get covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He recoils immediately and says, "Jesus, Steve, how hot _are_ you right now?"  
  
"'S not that bad," Steve defends. His red face shows another story, though.  
  
Bucky sighs and crooks a finger at Steve. "C'mere," he says. He pulls at Steve again and brings them to another side path so they're out of the way of the other visitors, and then he tugs at his own shirt. "Off. 'M not having you die of heatstroke out here."  
  
"I'm not gonna die," Steve defends again, but he follows Bucky's instructions and pulls his sweatshirt over his head.  
  
Bucky has always been into lean, muscular physiques — there's just something about the smooth ripple of muscle, the definition of abs, that drives him crazy. He likes having a hard chest to lean upon, likes having someone to practice sparring with. But Steve... Steve is all chicken-boned, long, thin limbs and concave stomach. He's pale as the devil, white in all the wrong places, and not muscular in the least.  
  
Bucky hasn't seen anything better.  
  
Bucky shrugs out of his tee and passes it over to Steve, who puts it on. It's much too large, hanging halfway to Steve's knees, but Steve immediately looks better with the absence of his bulky sweater. It's also a little pleasing, if not arousing, to see Steve wearing Bucky's clothes.  
  
Bucky had the foresight to wear dual layers, so losing one shirt isn't a big deal to him. Even if he had only worn the one top, he's sure he'd be fine having to walk around shirtless. Especially around Steve, who's looking much happier now that he's not suffocating from inside that cotton deathtrap.  
  
It's Steve's turn to get the ball rolling again. "Come on," he says, jerking his head towards the main path.  


* * *

  
They end up spending the rest of the day together, too enthralled with each other to split. By the time ten o'clock in the evening rolls around, they've found themselves in a tiny cafe in the city, sipping at coffee and picking at muffins and just talking about everything and nothing at the same time.  
  
"Favorite animal?" Bucky implores.  
  
"Giraffe. Favorite baseball team?"  
  
"Dodgers, but you should'a known that. Dogs or cats?"  
  
"Dogs, I'm allergic to cats. What did you dream of last?" Steve shoots back.  
  
"Nightmares, same as every night. Favorite television show?"  
  
Steve seems a little jostled by Bucky's confession of nightmares, but he takes it in stride. "House, mostly for the idiocy. Book you like the least?"  
  
Bucky makes a face and answers, " _Of Mice and Men_. Favorite memory?"  
  
"Visiting the Met, no doubt." Steve smiles a little bit at the memory, and then asks his question. He's got the perfect one — and it will undoubtedly catch Bucky off guard. "Are you a normal ice cream licker or one of those people who bites right into it like some kind of animal?"  
  
The question definitely catches Bucky. "What—" he flubbers. "Uh. Depends. Three things on a deserted island, go."  
  
"Sketchpad, inhaler, grilled cheese sandwiches," Steve ticks off. He names out another outrageous question: "Do you put the toilet paper roll on the right way or the murderer way?"  
  
Bucky's starting to catch on. "The right way," he says pointedly. "When's the last time you tried to move something with your mind just to see if suddenly you could?"  
  
"Like, an hour ago," Steve laughs. "Okay, how many pillows is too many pillows?"  
  
"There is no such thing as too many pillows. What would you do for a Klondike bar?  
  
Steve laughs again, and god, that's beautiful. He stares at Bucky with that wide grin, bright eyes, and says seriously, "Your mom?"  
  
Bucky has died, most definitely — a cute guy making 'your mom' jokes and dishing out just as much as Bucky is? He's met his match. His mom would be so proud of him if she knew he was making friends with someone with a sense of humor to rival his—  
  
Friends. Of course. Because he's not out, so they can't be anything more right now.  
  
Still. It's a pleasant thought. He's finally met someone just as sarcastic as him, as foolhardy and rambunctious. Even if they don't do more than just date (and being boyfriend/boyfriend is much differently than dating, thank you very much), it's nice to find someone that's just as willing as Bucky to blurt out stupid questions and even stupider (read: funny) answers.  
  
It's Steve's turn to ask a question. "How often do you cry in the shower?" he teases.  
  
Bucky can feel the smile threatening to fall off his face, but he doesn't let it show. "Every time," he teases right back, a partial truth. The only time he every cries is when he's in the shower, when he can be alone. "What's the most you've drunkenly spent at McDonald's?"  
  
"I don't drink. Messes with my meds," Steve says apologetically. He does sound a little forlorn as he says it, which makes Bucky feel a little bad for asking. "But," Steve tacks on, "I did spend like three hundred bucks on Amazon while I was high one time."  
  
Bucky's eyebrows shoot up immediately.  
  
"Not pot," Steve adds hastily. "I got my dosage wrong one time and it just... happened." He shrugs.  
  
"No shit," Bucky says. "What the hell did you buy for three hundred bucks?"  
  
Steve looks sheepish, his pinked blush crawling from his cheeks down to his neck. "Totally not a kayak," he mutters under his breath, turning his head away from Bucky in embarrassment.  
  
Bucky lets out a loud guffaw, which causes the other customers in the cafe to twist around to look at him. He doesn't mind, though. He glances at Steve through his tears (laughing, happy tears) and repeats, "A kayak? Jesus Christ, Steve, remind me to never let you near my Amazon account."  
  
Steve smiles a little ruefully. "I'll keep that in mind," he says.  
  
Suddenly, the room is filled with the sound of chirping, and Steve's blush turns redder. Bucky doesn't understand why he's flushing until he sees Steve start digging around in the pockets of his jeans. When Steve finally retrieves his phone from his pocket, Bucky sees that that's what's making the noise.  
  
Steve's face turns white when he sees who's calling him. Still, he tries to remain upbeat for Bucky's sake. "Sorry," he apologizes. "I've gotta take this." He jerks a thumb towards the door of the cafe, a gesture that tells Bucky that this call is private.  
  
Bucky waves him off. "Ditching me for your phone?" he teases. "Harsh. But I think I can manage by myself for a few minutes."  
  
Steve gives him an apologetic smile as he stands up, but it looks forced. Bucky watches him leave cafe and stand right outside, talking animatedly to the person on the other side of the line.  


* * *

  
"... You must realize that this is simply part of the grieving process. I do think you would be much better off coming back to Brooklyn and meeting with me to talk, rather than try to figure this out for yourself."  
  
Steve can feel the tips of his ears starting to redden and he curls in on himself instinctively. He's turned away from the cafe, away from Bucky — and he knows that Bucky won't pry, but he hides anyway — and from the rest of the world. He's a little embarrassed, sure, but mostly he's angry.  
  
"I'll be back in a few months," Steve says for the third time. "I'll think about it until then."  
  
The woman on the other end of the line sighs exasperatedly and repeats herself. "Steve, I know this is a trying time for you right now. I really think it would be best if you would come in, just once. I think you would feel much better afterwards."  
  
Steve doesn't know how to get it through her head. "No thanks," he snaps. "I'm fine. Goodbye." He snaps his phone shut — flip phone, because he can't afford a smart phone, not yet — and takes a minute to take deep breaths. He's a little outraged.  
  
Someone had given his number to a grief therapist. Probably not the hospital, since they had a no-solicitation policy, plus there were numerous HIPAA procedures that prohibited things like giving out the phone numbers of patients and their family members. Maybe the funeral home, which would make sense.  
  
Steve kind of wants to punch whoever gave away his number.  
  
They gave it to a no-nonsense woman, of course, someone who prodded Steve for ten minutes straight about coming back to Brooklyn to talk. And he'd said no, and she'd said please, and he'd said no again, and then she'd resorted to almost begging. A fake beg, of course, just enough reassurance and pitifulness in the speech to make it sound like Steve would be doing her a favor by coming in, rather than the other way around. It sickens him, just a little.  
  
Bucky is still waiting in the cafe for him. Steve slips his phone into his pocket and heads back inside.  


* * *

  
Bucky can't deny that his vision turned a little red while he was watching Steve converse on the phone. The way Steve curled in on himself, the way his shoulders started shaking with anger... It pissed Bucky off.  
  
He doesn't show it when Steve comes back inside, however. Instead, he places a smile on his face and says, "Bad phone call?"  
  
"Something like that," Steve grumbles. He doesn't sit down across from Bucky, which is a little nerve-wracking, and instead says, "It's getting a little late, don't you think?"  
  
Bucky can't deny it — it's getting dark out, and the street lamps are starting to turn on. It's a little melancholy — the end of his night. He's going to have to head home, back into the waiting arms of his parents, and then go to work again tomorrow. Unless that's his off day, he can't remember. He'll have to check the calendar when he gets back.  
  
"It is," he agrees. He stands up as well, pushing his chair in under the table. He doesn't miss Steve's little hum of approval, and he lets one out as well involuntarily; it's habit to push in his chair, from years of serving and even more years of having his mother scold him whenever he didn't.  
  
"Do you maybe want to do this again tomorrow? I'll still be in town." Steve looks hopeful.  
  
Bucky could almost kiss that dopey look off of Steve's face. "Definitely," he says. He's glad that Steve's mood is turning optimistic again, and he wouldn't want to deny himself the chance of getting to see Steve again either. "What do you have planned?"  
  
Steve looks sheepish again, though less embarrassed than he was when he was talking about his accidental kayak purchase. "I hadn't thought about it," he admits. "Your choice?"  
  
Bucky can't think of any places to visit off of the top of his head. Wherever they go, it'll have to be scenic (Bucky wants to see Steve draw some more) and have things to do (he wants to spend as much time with Steve as possible). There's nothing like that in his town; he'll have to do some research as soon as he gets back home. Still, he agrees readily. "Sure," he says. "I'll text you in the morning?"  
  
A smile is finding its way onto Steve's face. "Sounds great," he says.  
  
Bucky smiles, too. "Great," he echoes.  


* * *

  
Bucky attributes the heat he's feeling to the fact that he's next to Steve, the unfairly hot guy he met the day before that he now really, really wants to kiss.  
  
Steve attributes the heat he's feeling to the same reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friday updates seem to be a thing!
> 
> Hope you liked this. As always, I appreciate you all and love it when you comment/kudos/bookmark/reread a million times and cry.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be updating every Thursday evening/Friday afternoon!
> 
> I love comments, even if you're a guest and you only have one word to say! Thank you for reading!


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